Old Wives' Tales
by pizzamargherita
Summary: A Gondorian damsel who speaks five languages, writes poetry and plays the harp but can't tell a horse from a cow is the last thing King Éomer needs. As for Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, the mere thought of being married off to some barbarian war chief from the North gives her palpitations. What on earth were their relatives thinking?
1. Of Meddling Sisters

As you may suspect, I don't own Middle-earth, nor do I make money with this story, it is for entertainment purposes only.

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><p>"<em>Éomer became a great king, and being young when he succeeded Théoden he reigned for sixty-five years, longer than all their kings before him save Aldor the Old. In the War of the Ring he made the friendship of King Elessar, and of Imrahil of Dol Amroth; and he rode often to Gondor. In the last year of the Third Age he wedded Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. Their son Elfwine the Fair ruled after him."<em>

J. R. R. Tolkien – The Lord of the Rings; Appendix A

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><p>Éomer son of Éomund, Lord of the Riddermark, clasped the saddle bag that contained the few belongings he would need on his journey from Ithilien to Minas Tirith and took a deep breath. He leaned against the delicately carved archway that led to his sister's orchard – of course, everything was delicately carved in Ithilien, as he had noticed with equal parts of conceit and wonder when arriving at the newly built house in Emyn Arnen, where Éowyn lived with her husband and new-born son. For Éomer's taste, Gondorian homes were too decorated, almost ostentatious, and they gave him the constant feeling of being a mûmak in a room full of glassware. He preferred the practical way of life that he was used to from Edoras; solid walls to keep out enemies, large fireplaces to keep out the cold, and a decent cup of mead in the evening to keep out the memories of blood and destruction that still crept into his mind from time to time when he was alone and unoccupied.<p>

Granted, the latter happened quite rarely since he had taken his late uncle's place on the throne of Meduseld. He did his best to provide for his people, but two years were not a long time for a realm to recover from a war that had taken as many lives and goods as the war against Sauron had. The people of the Mark still struggled for their daily survival, although they got by quite well under the given circumstances. Éomer trusted in their tenacity; the Eorlingas and their land had endured worse and they would endure this. He still doubted if it had been the right decision to decline King Elessar's offer to send some crop and other relief supplies to the Mark before the winter, but he knew that his people would rather eke out a living on their own than accept Gondor's charity. They might be poor, but they were still as proud and upright as the old songs described them and he did not wish to trade places with any lord of Gondor.

He let his eyes wander along the elaborate carving of the archway once more before an almost inaudible snort escaped him. He looked at his sister, who was busy weeding the herb patch in the garden. She had actually acquired some skills in the art of healing – who would have thought it – and took great pride in her home-grown herb supply. While pulling out the unwanted plants, she hummed a lullaby to her son, who was sleeping in a basket in the grass next to her. It was a peaceful sight and Éomer smiled to himself.

Éowyn at least had not changed: Still as dedicated and joyful in everything she did, she was a reassuring constant in Éomer's otherwise so uncertain life, even though she was not by his side anymore. He missed her presence in Edoras, most of all her contagious laughter that had warmed the halls of Meduseld, but of course it had only been natural for her to start a life of her own. She seemed content, which was the only thing that mattered. Faramir was a decent man and the two of them appeared to be genuinely happy with their life in Ithilien. One less thing to worry about at his departure, Éomer thought and a bittersweet smile spread over his face.

He cleared his throat. Éowyn became aware of his presence and addressed him in a hushed voice, in order to not wake up the child, "Good morning, brother! Is it time?"

"Yes, I came to take my leave of you," he answered. "Faramir is waiting." Éowyn sighed and nodded. She rose and carefully picked up the basket with her sleeping son.

Together they walked to the stable, where the king's escort of five riders of the Mark, as well as Faramir and his men, who would accompany Éomer to Minas Tirith, were readying their horses. Éomer found his mount patiently waiting for him. He petted the large dapple-grey's neck and was rewarded with an affectionate snort. Éowyn caressed the horse's mane and said in a very sincere tone, "Firefoot, my old friend, promise me to take good care of your master."

Éomer breathed deeply. "Well, dear sister, I'm glad I finally saw your new home and met little Elboron," he stated, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt. "It's a great relief to see with my own eyes that you're happy here."

His smile must have looked very forced because Éowyn frowned and took his hand. "You don't need to worry about me," she assured him. After a short pause she added, "I miss you too, that's for certain, and I don't like the idea of you being all alone in Meduseld. But who knows, maybe things will change after your visit in Minas Tirith." On saying that, a cheeky grin appeared on her face.

Éomer could only just stop himself from rolling his eyes. He had hoped she would already leave him alone with her latest stroke of genius: setting him up with Faramir's youngest cousin. She had hardly talked about anything else than the oh-so-charming young lady of Dol Amroth during the entire two weeks of his stay and he feared he would go insane if he heard the name Lothíriel one more time. Granted, the girl in question was the daughter of his dear friend, Prince Imrahil, and Éowyn seemed to be very fond of her, but a pampered Gondorian damsel was the very last thing Éomer needed. He refrained from a comment and started grooming his horse, while Éowyn kept smirking at him.

Éomer stayed calm for quite a while – after all, he had had a lifetime of practice in ignoring his sister's teasing – but eventually he could not bear her impertinent smirk any longer. "For the last time, Éowyn," he snapped, causing his horse to wince and little Elboron to stir in his basket while producing sounds of disapproval, "what would I do with some eighteen-year-old princess who speaks five languages, writes poetry and plays the harp but can't tell a horse from a cow, let alone lead a people of farmers and herders? I bet she would faint at the mere sight of Edoras, or freeze to death the first day of winter."

Éowyn shot him a glare while trying to soothe her son back to sleep. When the child had stopped complaining, she turned back to her brother and whispered, "Lothíriel is twenty-two and very much able to distinguish horses from cows. In fact, her love for horses and life in the country was what first gave me the idea of introducing the two of you. She may be a sweet-tempered, refined young lady at first sight, but under all the layers of silk and poise she is almost as stubborn as you and she possesses a very… straightforward sense of humour. You will like her, I promise. Besides, she has led Imrahil's household ever since her mother fell ill, so she could undoubtedly manage Meduseld."

In the meantime Faramir had come over to them with his horse and suppressed a grin on noticing that the all too familiar subject was up once more. Éomer grumbled into his beard, put the saddle on his horse's back and fastened it. "That sounds very tempting indeed, but the last time I looked, Meduseld managed itself quite well without her," he gave back, gracing his sister with a sarcastic smile.

Her face reflected utter frustration at such ignorance. "You can't stay alone forever," she declared, still whispering for the child's sake, which made her agitation even more amusing to watch. "Eventually the Riddermark will need a queen – and as you seem unwilling to look for one yourself, I'm offering my assistance because I feel responsible for my homeland's future as well. Lothíriel is worth considering, isn't she, Faramir?"

She glanced at her husband suggestively, but he only shrugged and replied in his best diplomat's voice, which he normally reserved for political negotiations, "I am hardly a fair judge of my own cousin's virtues." As Éomer was well aware, this was his brother-in-law's way of saying, 'She is the most magnificent creature you will ever lay eyes on and unless you treat her with the appreciation she deserves, the wrath of our entire kin will haunt you till your grave.'

He sighed and shook his head in resignation. "Fine, I will meet her and see for myself. I can't avoid her anyway, given that Imrahil and his family will be staying at the Citadel as well."

He attached the saddle bag and adjusted the stirrups, and when he considered his horse prepared for the journey, he decided to face the most dreaded moment of the day. "Farewell, little sister," he murmured and pulled Éowyn in a tight embrace. "You know you're always welcome to visit your old home."

"I know, and I hope to see you there next spring," she answered in a suspiciously coarse voice, smiling bravely. "Greet dear old Mildgyd and Master Oswine on my behalf. Have a safe journey – and may the winter treat our people kindly."

The king mounted his horse and signalled his soldiers to get ready as well. Faramir kissed his wife and child goodbye, Éomer waved a last time and at last the company set out towards Minas Tirith.


	2. Of Well-Meaning Fathers

"Father, I beg you to spare me," Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth sighed and resisted the urge to bury her teeth in her own fist. "You do not need to point out Lord Éomer's merits to me again, I have heard the wondrous tale often enough." She rammed her fork into the boiled potato on her plate and committed a cruel massacre of fish and vegetables. Her three elder brothers watched her silently, trying their best not to laugh.

Prince Imrahil seemed utterly unimpressed and continued in his usual tone of stoic kindness, "All I am saying is that you should get to know him before you form an opinion. He is an honourable man and a mighty warrior – am I right, Elphir?" His eldest son nodded dutifully while stuffing his mouth with carrots. Lothíriel scowled at him from across the table.

"I believe that," she tried once more, "but I do not see why I had to ride for weeks just for the sake of meeting this… clan chief from the North."

"King!" Imrahil corrected her. "He is the King of Rohan, 'Lord of the Mark', as his people call him. And I brought you here so that you could see something of the world instead of sitting in Dol Amroth all the time and watching the sea from your window. Do you not always read books about faraway lands? This is an adventure, my dear, try to enjoy it!"

The spark in his eyes did not quite set his daughter's heart aflame, judging from her grimace of devoted endurance. "I appreciate your concern for my well-being," she said in all sincerity, "yet it pains me to remember leaving Mother at home all by herself. She was not well when we left."

Imrahil frowned, thinking of his dear wife's pitiful condition, but he replied, "With two daughters-in-law and a house full of servants she is very well taken care of, I trust." He touched his daughter's hand and gave her a warm look. "Your mother does not wish you to spend your youth by her bedside and let your own life pass you by for her sake, and neither do I. Do not trouble yourself as long as you are here. Explore the capital, meet people, write poems about the wonders of the White City, do anything you like – and spare one evening to meet my friend, Lord Éomer. Will you do that for me?"

She nodded and forced a smile. "Of course, Father."

After dinner Lothíriel took a walk through the still busy streets of the capital with her youngest brother. They cut their way through the crowd of merchants and buyers, children playing tag and craftsmen working outside their shops. In the evenings, when a cool breeze brought relief from the heat of the summer's days, the city seemed to wake up once more after the sleepy hours around noon. To the young lady from the province, the whirl of colours, voices and smells was captivating and frightening at once. She had seen the city once before, as a young child, and her hometown of Dol Amroth was not quite a remote fishing village itself, but still she took in every sight and every sound with all her senses, anxious not to miss anything.

"Lothíriel, look!" Amrothos called and drew her attention to the merchandise displayed on a small wooden table in front of a smithy. Curiously she came closer and inspected the various metal objects – door handles, knives, fire pokers, belt buckles, a large wine goblet – but she could not figure out her brother's reason to grin at her the way he did. She threw him a questioning glance.

"Look at the carvings," he insisted and pointed at the goblet and a few cloak clasps. She did as he wished, although she could not see anything special in them; in fact, she found them rather crude and not particularly pretty.

"So this smith specialises in horse motives and knot patterns – what of it?" she asked.

Amrothos was still grinning like a cat in front of a bowl of cream. "It's Rohirric," he pointed out, "very nice traditional craftsmanship. Maybe you should buy one of these to make a good impression on Lord Éomer." He held up a pin with a stylised horse head. Lothíriel shot him a glare and walked on without another word.

After a few steps he had caught up with her and tried to soothe her, "Come on, I was just joking. Since when are you such a curmudgeon?"

"Since Father has decided to marry me off to a barbarian from the North!" she spat, crossing her arms in defence.

Amrothos shook his head. "He's not a barbarian…" he started, but his sister did not let him finish.

"Erchirion told me he saw him rip out an Orc's throat with his bare hands!" Her stomach turned at the mere thought.

"Oh yes, that was quite impressive, I saw it too," Amrothos contributed most helpfully, but when he noticed his sister's disgusted grimace, he added more seriously, "That happened in battle, Lothíriel, the alternative would have been death. All of us did horrible things in that war, and if you only knew half of it, you would probably be just as repulsed by Father and the three of us." A shadow crossed his usually cheerful face, but he blinked it away a moment later. "Anyway, you can believe me when I say that Éomer is a pleasant fellow… once you get to know him."

At that Lothíriel rolled her eyes, forgetting her manners for a second. "If he's anything like his sister, I decline with thanks," she muttered.

"Why? I thought you liked Lady Éowyn when she and Faramir stayed with us in Dol Amroth? You went riding with her almost every day," her brother objected.

She sighed in frustration. "Yes, I did like her, she was lovely and warm-hearted and, well… refreshing. Still, I found her somewhat savage and I wouldn't want to spend my entire life with someone like her, let alone with a whole people of that kind. What gave her and Father the idea that I of all people would be a good match for Lord Éomer is beyond me."

"You should take it as a compliment," Amrothos suggested. "Faramir and Éomer are due to arrive tomorrow, as far as I know, and when they have discussed all their diplomatic business with King Elessar, we will all come together in a nice convivial gathering and you can decide what you think of him. If the two of you don't get along at all, you can always say no."

"That's what will happen most likely," Lothíriel affirmed. "With all due respect to duty and family honour, I'm not a prize horse to be bartered away in order to humour a neighbouring realm's ruler." With that she declared the matter settled and dragged her brother along in direction of their accommodation.


	3. Of Horses and Ghosts

As fond as Éomer had grown of Aragorn, Faramir, Imrahil and his other Gondorian friends, he would much rather have met them again in a less formal setting and with less crucial political questions pending. He was not a diplomat and whenever he was forced to defend his realm's interests with words, he felt much more uncomfortable doing so than with a blade. He had only spent three days in the capital and he already felt drained and overwrought. He missed the peace and quiet of Meduseld, where the most complex intrigue he remembered was a farmer's false claim that his neighbour had poisoned his most valuable goat. Hopefully the negotiations about the establishment of a new sentinelled trading road all the way across Gondor and the Riddermark would soon be concluded.

It was still early in the morning on the fourth day of his stay in the city. The sun was just rising and Éomer decided to begin the day by seeking the company of someone who would not try to take advantage of him for a change. When he reached the royal stable on the highest level of the city, he took a moment to breathe in the familiar smell of horses and hay before he made his way to Firefoot's bay.

To his surprise he was not alone in the stable at this early hour; a few bays away from his stallion's accommodation, a young woman was busy grooming a very nervous chestnut mare. She was rather pretty, he thought – the mare, not the girl. Well, fine, both of them, although the girl's hair was full of straw and her mended riding skirt had seen better days. A servant, probably. At least this was not a noblewoman who was afraid to get her hands dirty, he mused, thinking of the encounter with Imrahil's highly praised daughter that was yet ahead of him. He walked on without paying much attention to her because he figured that being alone in the stable with a stranger might already make her uncomfortable enough.

His stallion greeted him with a friendly snort, as did the other five horses from the Mark close by. He gave each of them a pat and a piece of carrot before he proceeded to grooming Firefoot's grey coat, throwing occasional glances of pitiful amusement at the young woman struggling with the nervously prancing mare.

In her corner on the opposite side of the stable, Lothíriel was not sure which circumstance annoyed her more: the fact that her horse had seemingly gone insane overnight or this chance meeting with one of the infamous Rohirrim. In all honesty, the man over there compared to nothing she had ever laid eyes on. He was twice as tall and three times as broad as any person should be and to the inexperienced eyes of the young lady from fair and sheltered Dol Amroth he seemed like some sort of semi-feral mountain creature. He was not unkempt, let alone dirty – in fact his garments were in a better state than hers, she admitted begrudgingly. It was his mere intimidating physical presence and a certain untaught grace mingled with an air of underlying brute force that unsettled her. A wildling he was, no doubt, and she was glad he had not acknowledged her existence so far, but she could not deny that there was something fascinating about this foreign being, a bit like one took pleasure in observing dangerous wild animals from a distance.

Only when their eyes met for a split of a second, she caught herself staring at him and quickly pretended to be looking at the horse in the neighbouring bay. The stranger showed no reaction and turned back to his animal. Lothíriel noticed that he looked tired, frustrated even, and blamed it on the famed King Éomer, who must have ordered this unfortunate soldier to take care of the horses at this early hour.

Just when she was starting to dread the tiresome encounter with the Lord of the Mark once more, her thoughts were interrupted by a bolt of her horse. The mare's hooves crashed into the planks of the bay, making half the animals in the stable wince. "Easy, girl," Lothíriel whispered and tried to stroke the horse's nose, but that was not to the frightened creature's liking either. Her head shot up, almost knocking Lothíriel over, and the young lady resolved to take a step back in order to save her toes from being trampled. "What is the matter with you, my friend?" she murmured soothingly in Sindarin. Horses generally liked the tone of the elven tongue, but the mare seemed only mildly impressed and continued panting tensely.

"Turn her around!" it suddenly came from across the stable in a rough voice with the thickest accent Lothíriel had ever heard.

She glanced at the stranger for a good five seconds before she asked sheepishly, "Beg your pardon?"

He stepped out of the bay and gestured towards the wall behind her. "Your horse is scared of the shadow you cast when you move. If you turn her to face the gate, she should calm down."

Lothíriel processed his words while looking back and forth between the horse, the shadows on the wall and the open stable gate that let in the bright morning sun – it did indeed make sense. She took a hesitant step towards the mare, trying to figure out how to untie her rope without scaring her again. As slowly as she could, she approached the animal, but it appeared to be a hopeless endeavour.

Éomer watched the spectacle with equal parts of contempt and amusement for quite a while, until his good manners prevailed and he walked over to the girl, shaking his head ever so slightly. He entered the bay and signalled her to step aside, ignoring her weak protest. The horse was still panting and stomping and he could see the white in its eyes – poor creature. It bolted again when he grabbed the headcollar and untied the rope that held it with one quick movement. "Enough already, you spoiled little princess," he mumbled to the horse in Rohirric while gently pulling and pushing with enough determination to distract the animal from its attempts of resistance. Before it knew what had happened, it was facing the sunlit gate and all the scary shadows were gone. Éomer tied the rope and could not resist giving the young woman a triumphant smirk.

Lothíriel was dumbfounded at first. Had this barbarian just bewitched her mare in his strange language or could he simply handle horses better than anyone she had ever met? Apparently there was some truth to the term 'horse-masters of Rohan'. She cleared her throat and managed an awkward half-smile. "Thank you… for your assistance," she uttered and, stroking the mare's neck, she added, "silly animal…"

"Horses see many things that we don't," the stranger replied, already walking back to his stallion.

Before Lothíriel knew what on earth her mouth was doing without her brain's consent, she heard herself address him, "Is that so? You mean she saw a ghost?" She bit her lip on realising that her sarcastic tone might be inappropriate in the presence of an unpredictable stranger the size of a tree.

Éomer stopped and turned to face her. "Perhaps – and you probably shouldn't mock it." He managed to make his face look as grave as his voice sounded and indeed the girl threw a nervous glance at her own shadow on the wall. Éomer savoured the confusion on her face, it was rather endearing. Although he reprimanded himself internally for scaring this poor Gondorian stable girl, he added, "My people say that sometimes the spirits of our ancestors return to this world to spy on the living and can be seen as our shadows, following us wherever we go." After a few seconds he grinned at her. "Or maybe it is as you suspect and your horse is just silly."

Lothíriel was still too astonished to grasp the irony, but a part of her sensed that this Northman was mocking her. How dare he? She would repay him in his own coin. "Oh, really?" she gave back. "Restless souls in the shadows? Then I hope you didn't bring any clingy Rohirric great-grandfather of yours to Gondor because we have enough wandering spirits here as it is. You may yet encounter the Headless Huntsman who roams the streets at midnight, or perhaps, if you are particularly unlucky, the Veiled Lady of the Citadel. She specialises in driving men insane, you know."

Éomer raised an eyebrow, musing that the Veiled Lady might not be the only one in Minas Tirith blessed with that skill. No woman, except for his sister, had ever addressed him in such a manner. His sense of propriety wanted him to get angry at this insolent servant girl, but despite his honest effort he only started chuckling.

Lothíriel did the same, surprised to find a sense of humour in the barbarian. "My people say the spirits of the dead speak in the howling of the sea wind and the murmuring of the waves," she returned to the former subject, figuring that an attempt to educate the wildling about her culture might not be entirely wasted after all.

"I have never seen the sea," Éomer admitted, "but there is a mountain chain near my birthplace that used to be quite haunted for centuries, infested by an entire army of dead horsemen. I went there once as a boy – so tell me nothing about your peaceable Gondorian ghosts, for I have seen worse." He tried to look smug, which caused the girl's rather nicely shaped eyes to narrow.

"Oh, yes?" Lothíriel retaliated. "Then let me tell you the story of the faceless old man that lurks on the rock beach where I grew up. Every month under the full moon…" She stopped, suddenly noticing that she was about to lose her dignity in front of a complete stranger by rambling about ghosts. That was not how a Princess of Dol Amroth behaved towards some uncultured Northman, she reminded herself, suppressing the ever so slight feeling of regret that sneaked into her mind for no understandable reason. She cleared her throat and smoothed down her skirt, displaying the most neutral expression her face could produce. "Forgive me, maybe another time. I should not keep you from your duty any longer. Your horse seems to be missing you." She pointed at the grey stallion that was contently munching hay and did not pay the slightest attention to his master's absence, but still it was as good an excuse as anything to get out of this unseemly situation.

Éomer glanced at Firefoot – who did not show any sign of loneliness – and back at the young woman. Apparently he had made her uncomfortable after all, so he decided to leave her alone. He gave her a polite nod and went back to his stallion, grinning to himself in amusement over this curious and not altogether unpleasant encounter with the local population.


	4. Of Expectations

Her dress was fixed, her hair was braided and her best artificial 'court smile', as she called it, was gracefully adorning her lips – to her regret, Lothíriel found no more reason to delay her arrival at the gathering in the hall of Merethrond. Her cousin Faramir as well as the Queen of Gondor would be there, so she had at least a small chance to engage in a pleasant conversation with anyone apart from her father and brothers, but of course there was also the prospect of meeting the Horse-lord… She rolled her eyes at the mere thought. One barbarian a day was quite enough, she decided, remembering this morning's encounter in the stable.

Very well then, what must be, must be. She took a deep breath and directed her steps to the wrought iron door of the hall, passed the two watchmen and entered. To her relief, there were but a few people assembled around the large table and by the now cold fireplace, and mostly familiar faces. Her brother Erchirion became aware of her arrival and came towards her.

"Finally! We were beginning to wonder if you would desert us," he murmured in her ear while offering her his arm.

"I wish…" she answered under her breath and let him lead her to the table. There she went around greeting the nobility – first of all the King and Queen of Gondor – and exchanged the usual small talk with them, until she could flee to her brothers and her cousin, who were engaged in conversation by an open window overseeing the river far beneath the city.

"My dear Lothíriel, you look lovely this evening," Faramir complimented her, "but I must say you seem a little tense. Are you unwell?"

She smiled and thanked him for the compliment, but before she could say anything more, Amrothos tugged on her sleeve and whispered, "Brace yourself, beloved sister, here comes the Rohir!" All three of her brothers, even Elphir, grinned at her mortified expression and Faramir shot each of them a reproachful look.

She turned around, her artificial smile as sweet as it could possibly get. The first she saw was her father, a jovial look on his face, one hand clasping a cup of wine and the other resting on the massive shoulder of the man he was dragging along. Lothíriel blinked twice and felt the sudden urge to burst into flames when she realised she had seen him before.

"My friend, I would like you to meet my daughter Lothíriel," Imrahil said to the stranger before turning to her and adding rather redundantly, "My dear, this is Lord Éomer, King of the Riddermark."

The two of them stared at each other for half an eternity until Éomer found the presence of mind to incline his head and utter, "It is an honour and a pleasure to meet you, my lady." Addressing her this way made him painfully aware of how inappropriately he had treated her before – telling ghost stories to a noblewoman all alone in the horse stable, Béma forbid!

"The honour is all mine, my lord," Lothíriel mumbled, feeling her cheeks flush crimson while she curtseyed. By all the Valar, this was the most embarrassing moment of her life – she had unintentionally mocked the King of Rohan with some stupid old wives' tales!

Imrahil looked back and forth between them and raised an eyebrow. "Have you… met before?" he asked carefully.

This was getting better and better, Éomer stated to himself in silent embarrassment. On the one hand he could not tell his old friend how unseemly he had made his daughter's acquaintance, on the other hand he did not wish to slight her by pretending ignorance. So he resolved to leave the decision to her and glanced at her questioningly.

"We had a brief conversation in the stable this morning," she stated to his surprise, her face flaming red but otherwise quite confident.

"Hmm," Imrahil gave back, trying to look severe but unable to suppress his grin, "I shall leave you to resume it then." With that he turned around and gestured not very subtly at his sons and nephew to come with him.

Lothíriel chewed on her lip and Éomer's eyelid was twitching. They stood immobile, assessing each other, until suddenly both of them simultaneously started chuckling. The Lord of the Mark gathered what was left of his kingly demeanour and said, "Let me suggest something: We could simply acknowledge that this situation is awkward and make the best of it."

She nodded, relieved and somewhat impressed. "Seconded. And how exactly would we do that?"

"Well, I would offer to get you a glass of wine and then you could pick up where you left off this morning," he explained, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I believe you still owe me the rest of a ghost story."


	5. Of Untold Tales

The Queen of the Riddermark descended the stairs of Meduseld, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sunrays and suppressing a yawn. As tired as she was, she did not want to greet her husband half asleep on his return from his control visit to the Eastfold. She watched the small company of riders passing the gate and assembling at the foot of the stairs before the king dismissed the knights.

Lothíriel waited for the stableman to take charge of Éomer's horse and then walked up to him. "I didn't expect you home so early, my love. How did it go?" she asked, taking his arm.

Éomer wiped his forehead – blasted summer heat! How on earth could she be wearing a woollen dress and still have cold hands, he asked himself not for the first time, smiling fondly at the sun-kissed child of Gondor who had followed him to the frosty North so many years ago and was still struggling with the weather conditions. "The new marshal is doing well. A remarkable young man, it was the right decision to give him the post," he answered. "Oh, and the supposed Warg the farmers were worried about turned out to be a stray sheepdog. No wonder, there haven't been Wargs in these parts for a decade, but you know how suspicious the people are."

While they ascended the stairs together, he remembered to inquire, "What about the merchants from Anórien? Did you come to an agreement with our most esteemed Master Drauchir?" When he rolled his eyes on saying the name, Lothíriel started grinning.

"Yes indeed, he was here two days ago. I told him – in the most polite words, of course – that he could stick his trade agreement where it belonged if he didn't make us a better offer."

"So?" Éomer asked maybe a little too anxiously.

Lothíriel planted herself on the next higher step, trying to look imposing but still forced to look up at him. "Twenty trained horses and ten yearlings for a year's supply of rye and eight wagonloads of iron ore," she declared, not even making an effort to sound modest.

"You, my dear, never cease to amaze me," Éomer admitted. "I'm glad I've never been opposite you at a negotiating table."

She shrugged. "You face the Wargs, I face the vultures. It's called split of labour."

"Fair enough," he simply stated, but internally he thanked all the Valar for giving him a wife whose tongue was as sharp as her wits.

He opened the door of the hall and let her enter first. The cool air and the dim light were a relief after the long ride in the sun. Although the people of Meduseld knew what to expect of their king and queen on such occasions by now, Éomer had the discretion to wait until the closed door sheltered them from curious looks before he took his wife in his arms and greeted her properly with a kiss. It astonished him how much he still missed her every single time he left her behind at home. She seemed to feel the same, judging by the way she pulled him closer and wrapped her arms around his neck, unwilling to let go any time soon.

At some point his mind came back to reality and he wondered how unusually quiet it was for this time of the day. "Where are the children?" he asked, looking around in confusion.

The queen sighed in pretended exhaustion and replied, "Elfwine shouted something about going riding before he dashed off, followed by both dogs and with an unfinished Sindarin lesson on the table. Freodwyn is playing hide and seek in the barn with the seamstress' girls, I think. And the little one is sound asleep upstairs with the nurse watching him after he kept me up all night – his first tooth is coming through."

Now Éomer was genuinely surprised. "Really? By Béma, I still feel like he was born yesterday. They do grow up fast, don't they?"

Lothíriel nodded, suddenly feeling nostalgic. She remembered the winter's night six months ago when their youngest child had come into this world. She thought about how Éomer had waited up with the two older children, reading them stories almost till dawn. He had not had the heart to send them off to bed while they had been so excited about the arrival of their new sibling, and when little Deormund had finally been born, all three of them had welcomed him with dark rings under their eyes and lots of suppressed yawns. Éomer was certainly the more indulgent parent, Lothíriel thought, but perhaps that was because his duties as king did not always allow him to spend as much time with the children as he wished.

She took his hands and said, "You must have made the whole return journey in a gallop – poor horses!"

"I am quite confident they will survive it," he gave back. "I admit I made haste because I wanted to spend at least a few hours of this particular day with you, my dear."

Lothíriel's smile brightened. "You remembered."

"When have I ever not remembered in the past twelve years?" Éomer pointed out with a look of half-serious reproach. "How could I forget you trying to scare me with your Gondorian old wives' tales as if I were some sort of uncultured wildling?"

The queen snorted in pretended indignation. "Excuse me? You, my lord, took me for a stable girl!"

There was no way of refuting her point, he resolved, so he distracted her, "On the bright side, skipping the whole tiresome period of reserved politeness and etiquette made our courtship much more enjoyable, don't you agree?"

A very unqueenly giggle escaped her. "I certainly do. My poor father not so much, I'm afraid. I don't even want to know what he must have thought of us… But then again, it was his idea in the first place."

"And I will be grateful to him and my meddlesome sister for the rest of my days," Éomer murmured and pulled her in his arms again.

"My dear, you've got half the road dust of the Mark on your clothes!" Lothíriel protested, although she did not really mind and it was too late anyway.

He assessed her from head to toe with a sceptical frown. "So do you."

At that a mischievous smirk curved the queen's lips. "That can be helped. Given that you arrived so early and neither our children nor your counsellors should look for us any time soon…" She whispered the rest of her suggestion in his ear.

"I wouldn't mind that at all, my lady," the king gave back.

A while later his dusty travelling clothes as well as her woollen gown were piled on the floor of their bedchamber, whereas the king and queen lay equally entangled on their bed, no less exhausted than before but all the more relaxed and contented with the way they had used this rare undisturbed moment. Lothíriel stroked her husband's back – with warm hands for a change – while she watched him lazily wrapping a strand of her hair around his finger. All of a sudden he said, "You never told me the end to that ghost story."

She blinked twice and tried to follow his train of thought. "What?" she mumbled eventually, not paying attention to her choice of words for once.

"The Faceless Man of Dol Amroth," he enlightened her, making her burst out laughing.

"I can't believe you even remember that after twelve years," she chuckled. "We have certainly found a thousand more interesting topics of conversation since then. Well, I'm not going to tell you now. I will keep it to myself until the day we run out of better things to talk about."

He untangled his hand from her hair and placed a kiss on her forehead. "Then I'm confident I will never hear it."


End file.
